


Listen to Your Skates

by oonabashed



Series: grey eyes, great lies [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Grindr, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, but i happily accept other people's headcanon about him, hopefully it rings true for y'all, i am on the fence about kent parson, i wonder if there's anyone who could identify, idk - Freeform, if i've missed something key lemme know, kent parson... is bad at coping, um, ummm - Freeform, welp, what else?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6700825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonabashed/pseuds/oonabashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the game begins Kent feels good, as much as he does in general. Loose, undistracted, absorbing the energy in the room, letting it rev him up, get him to the place where he and the ice become partners, where the puck is a magnet, or maybe he is, but whatever the case they always make it back to each other. Just like- </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Listen to your skates, Kent, listen to the hiss of them, shut your goddamn brain off. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen to Your Skates

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was 100000% inspired by this post and pic by [wanksy over at tumblr](http://wanksy.tumblr.com/). I am a little tipsy and this is unbeta'd so I make no promises about its state. However, I do promise that I'll edit tomorrow.

There are itches that need to be scratched, and if Parse chooses the guy on Grindr precisely because he looks nothing like Jack Zimmermann (round wide open hazel eyes, curly strawberry blonde hair, wearing a beanie and chewing a toothpick while shirtless) then it's a fact which no one has to know, not even himself if he makes sure not to think about it too much. 

He sends a message, and the response is technical, asking for places and times and listing things that are and aren't allowed. He says no bruising and he won't go down on another guy for anything, he hates the taste of cum, and nothing is going anywhere, he's not interested in romance. Parse shoves down further thoughts about finding someone different, anyone who's goddamn different. 

Sometimes he spends hours trying to find someone with droopy blue eyes, with dark hair, taller than him, broader in the shoulder. When he lets himself do this, he gets more and more particular, never gets anything done except a disappointing orgasm in the shower, maybe a self pitying moment or two when he lets himself think about how things were. 

Kent Parson has a lot of things he tries not to think about. 

When the guy he meets at a hotel does a double take, Kent wonders if there's something going on here. He looks familiar, and though his match recovers quickly, Kent's glad for the opportunity to mask his own surprise. It's not his first time in Philadelphia- the Flyers tried to recruit him and he paid them a courtesy visit last year, just before- 

_Shhhhhhh-_

It doesn't matter, maybe six-months-ago Kent noticed this guy on the street, and the only thing it says about what's happening is that sometimes fate deals funny cards. 

There's some perfunctory negotiation about who's doing what and because Kent's main objective is _different_ he takes a cock up his ass and rides it until... well. Until they're done. 

Kent goes back to his own hotel room, shoves his face in a pillow, too tired once he gets short of breath to do anything but turn his face to the side. He wakes up with a crick in his neck. 

It's fine, he makes it through his pregame ritual with minimal distraction which was the whole point. No more itch, no more feeling of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ when he steps out on the ice with other people, feeling different things than he used to. 

Besides, his neck feels better after his afternoon nap. No consequences, right? That's the point of Grindr. Nothing to think about the morning after, unless you need spank bank material. 

When the game begins Kent feels good, as much as he does in general. Loose, undistracted, absorbing the energy in the room, letting it rev him up, get him to the place where he and the ice become partners, where the puck is a magnet, or maybe he is, but whatever the case they always make it back to each other. Just like- 

_Listen to your skates, Kent, listen to the hiss of them, shut your goddamn brain off._

Kent doesn't even notice until that prickle of intent raises his hackles. He feels it sometimes before he's about to get checked and he's learned to pay it attention. His eyes cast around the ice, and there on the d line he sees Strawberry Blonde, no longer anonymous, no longer a guy who 'doesn't want to see anything in the morning, much less you.'

Honestly, Kent's not worried. So what? So fucking what. It's just his luck, but beyond that there's nothing that fucking matters when he's on this rink except his goals. That's it. 

But they get caught in a lockup against the boards behind the goal, and Strawberry Blonde has Kent against the glass so hard he can feel every strap in his pads, and then he says it. 

"Guess the rumors about the Juniors weren't true."

Kent shoves him off, they fight for the puck, Kent flicks it around the edge to his left, but Strawberry Blonde pretends to be moving to a position as he shoves Kent back into the boards again, voice dripping venom. 

"Guess it wasn't Zimms taking it up the ass."

Kent hasn't dropped his gloves first ever. Not since he was drafted, not in juniors, hell, not since he was a kid. Maybe not even then, because most people are too stupid to drop gloves as a kid. But here he is, dropping his gloves, grabbing Strawberry Blonde in a headlock and ripping his fucking helmet off and getting one good jab into his face before others get there. Some are pulling at him, others are punching at the Flyers, and all Kent can think about is how much he'd give to rip that man's crooked incisor out, how much he'd pay to torch his whole goddamn life, tell everyone how he asked for Kent's fingers in his ass even while he was fucking Kent, tell his team what a perfunctory lay he is, how he'd give fucking anything for someone to just do what he says he doesn't want, because he still can't admit he wants anything. What a fucking coward, what a fucking-

Kent doesn't know why, but all the anger rushes out of him at once and he's raising his hands, skating back, bumping into bodies on his way out of the fray the refs are pulling apart. 

He doesn't notice the black eye or the lip until later, until the game is tied up with the meanest fucking bow he's ever put on any present he's given to himself. He makes it through press with a smile that's probably a little more sharkish than usual with the blood and the bruise. And when his goalie walks to the car lot with him, when he's asked if he's okay Kent doesn't answer the question. 

"It's fine," he says. 

And it will be. So long as he doesn't have to think about it. 

_Whatever it is, _he reminds himself.__

**Author's Note:**

> Join me in fandom hell at [tumblr](oonabashed.tumblr.com). Also, when do I stop disclaiming that this is one of my first fic attempts (3rd, technically)??


End file.
